In the Long Run

In a current television commercial, a jogger rifles through a woman’s trash, takes some documents, steals the woman’s identity, and ruins her life. I take great umbrage at this commercial. Runners are not like that! Most of them are hard-working, disciplined, honest people of scrupulous character.

My recent marathon gave me many examples of the kind of people runners are. Before the race, I enjoyed reading and responding to comments on a message board by the participants. The runners shared with each other their accounts of miles and miles of rigorous and disciplined training. Though most were strangers to each other, they sympathized with those suffering ailments and training problems, advised each other, and offered help and encouragement, with humor, respect, and acceptance.

The marathon race director, David, and his wife Rhonda, are also good examples of the kind of people most runners are. They put in many long hours to make the race a success. Before the event, David matched runners who had to drop out of the race with runners who were waiting to get in, allowing the droppees to recover their race entrance fees. He wrote emails with tips and information to help the runners do well, and spent hours on logistical arrangements. Rhonda included homemade cookies in all the race packets, and organized all the race volunteers. She was very nice and grateful to my Key Limey, when he agreed to help at an aid station.

The event itself provides more evidence. Immediately before the marathon, the participants converged in small groups at the start line, making new friends with smiles, and excited chatter. During the race, people complimented each other as they passed by. After the race, runners who had discarded clothing and articles along the race course were sure to find them safely picked up and returned to the finish, where they were laid out on a grassy area in plain view, for pickup. No one would dream of taking gear belonging to someone else, no matter how valuable.

For me, the character of a runner is summed up in the brief, but telling, incident I experienced in the last half mile of the race. I was exhausted, and hurting from a cramp in my left calf. The finish line seemed interminably far away, and I wanted to just walk. I slowed down, and was barely plodding along when a stranger, Paula, and her husband, came up behind me.

“No, you don’t, girlfriend!” she exclaimed. “You can’t walk! Run with us!” she encouraged. “Come on!” she called, as I stared at her in disbelief. But I obeyed, and started running again. I was only able to keep up their relatively brisk pace for less than a minute, but I was running. I marveled at the benevolent attitude of this woman. Her only concern was to keep me running, rather than to beat me. Paula finished a few seconds ahead of me, and won her age division. I placed first in my age division too, although I am not much older than Paula. For all Paula knew in that last half mile, I could have been her main competition. Yet she saw a runner in need, and she was willing to help. I won’t forget her!

So, who can imagine a true runner, someone like Paula, stealing someone’s identity? Bad commercial! Why would a runner need to do that? Runners already have their own very strong identities.

A few days ago as I was running in an alley alongside a ravine, I spotted something in the road ahead. Although its camouflage coloring blended in extremely well with the gravel and dirt road, I could still make out a small rabbit crouching very low and still, and looking straight at me. He did not flinch as I ran closer and closer. When I was directly alongside the animal, he suddenly turned and scampered forward in the same direction as I was going. We ran together, side by side, for about 25 feet before the scared rabbit veered off to the side, and down a hill.

“Great!” I laughed to myself. “I run as fast as a baby bunny!” I had even more in common with the baby bunny. Even as he was skittish and nervous, so was I, as I thought about competing in my approaching marathon.

Yesterday I completed my longest training run before the marathon—22 miles. As recommended by the training plan I follow, I ran much more slowly than I do on my weekday runs, supposedly teaching my muscles to conserve fuel, and generate glycogen. So there were no footraces with rabbits yesterday, and the deer I saw left me in the dust.

I’m still skittish and nervous about the marathon, and whether my training has been effective. In three weeks, I'll know the answer. Can I run as fast as a baby bunny for not just 25 feet, but for 26.2 miles?

My friend Chuck opened the cardboard box and showed me his starter’s gun. “Just hold it in the air away from your ear when you fire.” When he sensed my reluctance, he grinned and added, “They’re just blanks!”

A few days before, Chuck had offered the use of his gun to start the YMCA race that I had organized. It had sounded like a good idea, but now looking at the gun, I had second thoughts. It was really quite small, but somehow quite menacing.

Chuck couldn’t start the race himself because he needed to be in place as a traffic guard a half mile into the race route. I held the weapon gingerly, and shivered. I was not going to shoot that thing.

I abdicated my job to another race volunteer, Susan, who said, “Oh sure! No problem!” At the start line, I yelled in the megaphone, “Runners, take your marks! Get set!” And Susan fired.

With squeals and shouts, the runners took off. I carefully returned the gun to its box and stowed it out of sight and reach of mischievous hands.

Later I related my gun story to my son. This son has taken quite an interest in guns, despite never having any exposure to them as a child. “You’ve never shot a gun, Mom?” He seemed incredulous, although I don’t know why. “I’ll help you do it. Guns are perfectly safe when you handle them properly.”

I doubt I’ll ever take a shot. Shooting guns, even shooting blanks, kind of scares me.

I have vowed that this marathon, number 9, will be my last. Of course I've said that before. Tonight I looked at the marathon website and found the entrants' list. I am the only person entered from my state, and only a handful of participants reside west of the Mississippi. There are only five women in my age category. This is a very small marathon, but I hope to use it to finish my career in style.

Six weeks to go, and my piriformis syndrome is still a continual pain. After posting about my condition on the marathon message board, I received punny comments from fellow runners about hitting rock "bottom" and advice to put it "behind" me. To them I answer, "Tush-e!"

And I keep running.

I had three blog titles and ideas floating around in my head in the shower this morning. As I sighed and wondered when I would fit composing today’s blog into my schedule, I again experienced a feeling I’ve had lately. A feeling of stress and overextension. A feeling that my blog has become an o“blog”ation, rather than recreation.

When did this happen? When did writing become another item on my lengthy “To Do” list instead of a creative escape from it? What used to bring a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment now often seems to be a forced habit requiring much effort and discipline. I feel sad about that.

So today I won’t be writing “Back Off Gustav”, a piece about nature’s ability to turn us into hapless victims with warning, but no recourse, or “A Pain in the Butt”, a lament about my self-diagnosed case of piriformis syndrome, or “Pale in Comparison”, my thoughts on McCain’s choice of Sarah Palin as the Republican vice-presidential candidate.

Instead, I write about not writing, which, in the long run, may be as insightful as any of the other subjects.

A couple of days ago, I smiled, amused, as I passed the jumble in the corner on my bedroom floor. I was packing for a short overnight trip to attend a wedding in the southern part of the state. The techno tools that I needed during the trip were in a pile, some of them charging their all-important batteries. Included in my gear were a cell phone, a laptop computer, a video camera, a digital still camera, and my PDA, each of which I thought would be legitimately necessary on the trip.

Ironically, the bridal couple is an earthy, “granola”-type pair whose wedding was purposely planned for a Spartan, rustic mountaintop chapel because of its simple, back-to-basics, and back-to-nature atmosphere. They disdained the usual pomp and circumstance, and had even encouraged everyone to wear flip-flops to the ceremony.

Enter Cyppy with her techno treasure. Perhaps I sullied the pristine environment when I pulled out my gadgets, but I think the happy couple will enjoy the video and pictures that technology provided. And in my defense, they had asked for my services.

With the use of an additional technological tool, an inverter, I was able to recharge my devices and use several of them in the car during the ten hours of driving to and from the wedding. I acknowledge the additional irony that these tools that supposedly simplify our lives also make our lives more complicated and complex. Some may call it progress, and some may call it perversion, but I like my gadgets, and plan to keep on charging and using them.

I had just passed the four-mile mark of my long run when I felt raindrops on my arm. I grimaced and hoped the rain remained a sprinkle because I had eleven more miles to go.

Suddenly, without warning, something furry whacked me on my left leg and I nearly fell. Startled, but still running, I looked down and saw nothing. Creepy, I thought. What kind of animal was that? Whomp! Something was attacking my heels, and this time I was forced to stop running to avoid a tumble.

The culprit was a frisky little puppy who had appeared out of nowhere, and now wanted to play. “Go home!” I ordered. He just cocked his head and looked at me expectantly. “Go!” I shouted, and pointed back in the direction where I thought his home must be.

The rain was coming down more forcefully now. I was just on the edge of town in a field overgrown with weeds, and had no desire to run in a deluge with a dog nipping at my heels. I walked, because I couldn’t run with the dog jumping up on me, about a block to a gas station and convenience store to wait out the storm.

Lil Pup followed me happily right up to the store, and then shook himself, spraying dog water over me. “Thanks,” I muttered in aggravation, cold and wet, and exasperated with the delay in my run. I’m not a big dog fan, but I could see that this little guy, with his pug nose and curly tail, was what many people would gush over and call “adorable.”

“I’m not responsible for you,” I scolded, “so scat!” I pointed out in the rain, and Lil Pup obediently darted out in the downpour a few yards, then ran right back up to me, where I cowered under the overhang of the store roof. OK, he was cute. And he was just a defenseless puppy, but what was I supposed to do about it? I fumed as I waited, and it continued to rain.

Lil Pup tried to befriend all of the customers filling up with gas. Most of them petted him, and spoke friendly, gushy puppy talk to him, but all of them drove away, sometimes with the dog chasing dangerously after their cars. It was still raining cats, and …dogs, and I was afraid Lil Pup was going to get hit by a car in the rain. He wore a collar, but had no identification tags.

Grrrrrr. I grumbled to myself, but I realized I was starting to feel responsible for the animal. After all, he had followed me several blocks from his home, and probably had no idea how to get back. Poor bedraggled little critter.

I went into the Red Eagle convenience store, and asked the clerks to call the Animal Shelter. Lil Pup managed to sneak in the door with an entering customer, and I smiled indulgently as the dog scurried down the snack aisle before the clerk caught him and wrestled him outside. The clerk seemed quite enchanted with the dog, and willing to attend to him until the animal control officer arrived.

The rain let up, and I decided to continue on my run. I left the store, with one last protective glance at Lil Pup. He was contentedly sniffing around the dumpster at the side of the store. With what I only can call unexpected, gushy puppy love, I honestly hoped he would safely make his way home to a happy and more vigilant owner.

Every four years I feel a sense of urgency, as well as an intense obligation to watch hours and hours of television in a brief two-week period of time.

It’s the Olympics.

At any other time would I watch women’s double sculls or fencing? I mean, I don’t know the difference between a feint and a parry, or a foil and an epee.

But I watch, because it’s the Olympics.

It’s strange, but suddenly a water polo match between Montenegro and Hungary becomes engrossing. My daughter had to clarify for me the location of Monte Negro, because I wasn’t exactly sure where it even was, but I was still cheering for its team.

I watched dressage (pronounced dress-ahhzh) intently, although it just seemed to be a guy in a top hat walking, trotting and cantering about in circles on a horse with its mane tied in knots.

It’s Olympic dressage, and therefore I watch.

Trap Shooting?! Are you joking? No, I watched a man coolly win the gold medal after missing only 5 out of 150 shots. It’s even kind of artsy. When the competitor hits and breaks the clay target, a hot pink smoky cloud appears in the air.

I was glued to the tube for more mainstream events like swimming, beach volleyball, diving, soccer, and gymnastics. And the Olympics just started two days ago.

There’s something special about these competitions, the pinnacle of athletics, that draws me to obsessively watch the television coverage. The athletes’ grit and determination are inspiring. Their focus is remarkable. Their ability, talent, and discipline leave me in respectful awe and admiration.

It’s the Olympics.

In the last ten days I’ve solemnly attended two funerals and celebrated a wedding. I’ve romped on the floor with my 17-month old granddaughter, and I’ve marveled at the ultrasound pictures of grandbaby #2. These seemingly disparate experiences have meshed together like the pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope, and have caused me to reflect on life’s fleeting, treasured moments.

Like the poet, I believe that we have come from a divine existence to which we will return. Our lives here are but a moment, and there is much to learn and to accomplish. As I watched The Little Princess learn and acquire new skills in the few short days she was here for a visit, I was amazed and inspired by her. She is curious and inquisitive, determined and eager. I wonder, and also worry, what the future holds for her.

Will I be there to celebrate on her wedding day? Will she send ultrasound pictures of her unborn child to her father, my son? Will she solemnly mourn at a funeral after an unexpected and tragic death? Will she enjoy the playground equipment at the park with her granddaughter?

Most of us have similar pieces of glass in our lives’ kaleidoscopes which represent hallmark events. Births, weddings, and deaths occur in all our lives, but in different patterns and designs. It is comforting to know that the colorful mosaics of our lives, similar, but yet unique for each of us, do not fall haphazardly into place, but are intricate pieces of a divine plan.